Behind the Looking Glass
by NovemberNite
Summary: Beginning at the end, Christine is leaving with Raoul across the underground lake and Erik is watching them in despair. As he leaves his world forever, he suddenly falls into another realm stranger than the one he created. Is he mad, dead, or both?
1. Down the Rabbit Hole

_A/N: As much as I wish these worlds were mine, credit must be given to the respective creators of the Phantom of the Opera realm from which I have borrowed so much, and also to Lewis Carroll and his brilliant story, Alice in Wonderland. Special thanks to my beta and muse, RandomBattleCry. She's been through so much with me on this story and I cannot thank her enough. It's been two years since I could resume work on it and it is for her that I am posting it now. Thanks, Ran!_

**Behind the Looking Glass: Down the Rabbit Hole**

Glass scattered the floor where he had broken the mirror. It glittered in the candle light like a shattered soul. The lake bore away his heart and the mob quickly approached. He had no choice but to go forward into the darkness of an uncertain future. Risking a last glance at his sanity's downfall, he stepped through the mirror's frame… and fell.

The drop was startling, though not very deep. It sloped slightly and he slid to a stop on his back in the middle of a spacious cavern. His head was spinning and he closed his eyes against a wave of nausea, cursing himself. It had been too long since he had examined that passage, a foolish mistake on his part. It was common for the rise and fall of water to open fissures in the rock; but he never actually believed that he would need to make use of that particular escape route.

The nausea passed, yet a cold sweat prickled his skin. The feeling was similar to being doused with hot water while standing in a freezing wind. He opened his eyes and gazed at the stars above. They winked at him through a canopy of strange trees with large heart shaped leaves.

He blinked in wonder.

There was a forest beneath his underground lair, and a beautiful night sky illuminated by the smiling quarter moon. In the distance he could hear the music of a roaring waterfall. Everything around him seemed to glow with an internal light that defied the darkness of night. It was an ethereal illumination that was soft, beautiful, and lively. He half expected to see fairies darting about in the trees that danced to the timing of the twinkling stars -surely this must be their realm.

How odd that the realization was so easily accepted.

Beside him, the flowers began to sing in shrill voices. He cringed at the noise, yet he imagined flowers would sound like this if given voice. Idly, he considered giving them voice lessons. They sounded like miniature Carlottas, warming up for a night of operatic temper tantrum.

It was a moment before he realized the sound of laughter was his own. He could not remember the last time that he had laughed.

Had he ever laughed?

A small, haughty voice chimed in his ear. "What is so terribly amusing?"

He turned his head and smiled at the indignant red rose.

"I've gone mad," he chuckled. "She's left me and I've finally cracked!"

"Well, be off and be mad someplace else," she cried, shaking her thorny arm at him threateningly. "I am trying to sing!"

"Keep trying," he retorted, scrambling to his feet, "and perhaps you'll succeed sometime before you wilt."

She picked up a small stone and threw it at him. "Be gone, you ugly Bandersnatch!"

He strode away from the furious flower, shaking, though he could not tell if it was amusement or the odd chilled feeling. Barely taking five steps, his attention was arrested by a sound quite different from the floral chorus. Clutching a hand to his heart, he slowly turned.

Sitting on a very large mushroom in the center of the flowerbed was a young woman. Her back was to him and dark, unruly curls cascaded past her shoulders. She sang a nonsensical tune with an angelic voice. He knew that voice well though it currently lacked emotion or even innocence. It was merely… precise.

"'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves," she was singing to something in her lap, "did gyre and gimble in the wabe."

"Christine," he breathed, and even his voice trembled.

She looked up at the sound of his voice and raised the object in her lap to eye level.

"Is it the Jabberwocky, Cheshire Le Chaton?" she whispered fearfully.

He noted that the object was a black and purple striped plush kitten bearing a malicious grin. It was rather cute aside from the grin, though obviously sewn together by a child's hand. The copper button eyes were too large and the seams were ripping which probably gave it the hideous smile.

"What is a Jabberwocky," he said as he smiled indulgently upon the girl, "or a Bandersnatch for that matter?"

Never had he encountered such strange names, and yet somehow everything he discovered here was accepted for the dream that it was. It never occurred to him to be angry or truly confused. Perhaps he had died and this was the point between heaven and hell. He smiled at the thought of his love for Christine being the death of him. At least then he would have done one noble thing in his life. At least there was music here, even if it was strange.

Surprisingly, she laughed and clapped her hands together. The cat fell forgotten into the now silent flowers.

"Oh, the Jabberwocky would never ask such a question," she cried in delight. "I was fearful because only he says that strange name. I am not Christine. I really don't know who I am or if I am anyone, but everyone that is no one calls me Lotte. What or who are you if not the Jabberwock?"

She turned to him then and he nearly screamed in horror. The likeness was his darling Christine, only it wasn't her. Something was odd, different, wrong - it appeared as though the wax replica he made had sprung to life. She gazed steadily upon his unmasked visage with large, permanently startled brown eyes. They were empty, soulless eyes that gleamed with a bright edge of insanity.

"You're not real," he said numbly.

"Of course she is," a small female voice mewed, and he looked down in its direction. The black plush kitten was sitting at his feet licking a paw with detached interest. Seams, button eyes, and wicked grin were gone; cloth was now sleek fur, the purple giving the black fur a blue sheen in the moonlight.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

She smiled up at him and replied with a purr. "What are you?"

He blinked. The cat had smiled at him, and the smile was… maniacal. It was absolutely beautiful, chilling, and completely catlike… if a cat would smile. Could a cat smile? Even so, it was simply crazy on a small sleek kitten. He refused to believe that it was possible.

"What am I?" He pondered the question. "I'm mad, I think. Or dead. Maybe both."

"I am Cheshire Le Chaton," the kitten nodded but persisted to smile at him, "and you must never call this girl by the name you mentioned. Here, she is known as Lotte. Here she has forgotten that other name because that other name does not come here anymore. Lotte is all that is left because that other name left Lotte. I don't blame her, really."

The kitten suddenly jumped onto his cape and scampered up it with tiny needle claws digging into his legs, arms, and shoulder. "We welcome the mad," she purred into his ear in a tiny whisper or hiss. "All are mad here, but the Red Queen redefines madness. Beware of her and forget your name. The Jabberwocky feeds on our names for the Red Queen. The mad wench will send it after you if you're not careful."

"I have no name worth taking," he replied distractedly, staring intently upon the Christine likeness, "but you may call me Erik."

His mind was spinning, trying to make sense of what the kitten was saying…trying to ignore that a kitten was actually saying it. It seemed this was a place of imagination… a true dream world. So maybe he was dead after all.

Lotte continued to smile at him and he noted a similarity between her grin and the cat's.

"What is this place, Cheshire Le Chaton?"

The creature jumped down and wound herself around his feet several times before purring a reply.

"It is the place between dreams and nightmares. When you gaze into a mirror, have you ever wondered what your reflection thinks about you?"

"No," he nearly growled, carefully stepping across the flower bed to approach the girl. She was wearing a pale blue dress that appeared more appropriate for a child than a young woman of her age. He had always disliked how Christine looked in pastel colors.

Cheshire Le Chaton flexed the claws of her right paw and examined them closely. "Well, you should think about it once in awhile. Every coin has two faces," she chimed.

Erik momentarily ignored the feline as he stared at the soulless creature before him. Slowly, he lowered himself to the mushroom beside her and reached out a trembling hand.

Caressing the frozen dimple upon her cheek he said softly, "Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing."

"She's wasn't always like this," the kitten giggled. "Like you… she's broken."

He raised his eyebrows inquiringly. "What do you mean?"

She gracefully leaped into his lap and shoved her head underneath his chin. Absently, he began to run his long fingers through her soft fur. Purring deeply, she placed a paw upon his shoulder and dusted it off.

"Do you see the dust of broken glass?" She tilted her head to one side. Her face was the night; stars for eyes and the quarter moon for a grin.

"I do," he frowned at the tiny shards that now made the foolish flowers sparkle. They twisted and turned, admiring themselves in the moonlight until a daisy sliced open a leaf. They all screamed dramatically and began picking the glass off each other like fleas.

Cheshire Le Chaton howled with laughter, then suddenly grew as calm as the eye of a storm.

"Only a broken spirit could enter our world through a broken mirror," she said soberly, sharpening her claws upon his knee.

"That makes no sense," he began to argue, but a hand gently grasped his arm.

"Nothing really makes sense here," the girl beside him reached out and grasped his arm. Her voice and touch were gentle and very alive. "You'd do well not too think about things too much. You'll go mad, or sane. Here, one is as bad as the other."

He turned to look at her and started, falling off the mushroom. A sharp pain stabbed into his backside and he yelped.

Erik had never yelped in his life.

The girl held out a delicate hand and helped him to his feet. The rose diva was slightly rumpled, and shaking in fury. He never imagined that flowers would be capable of the profanity she was shrieking. The other flowers had obviously not imagined so either, for the violets blushed and the brave pansies attempted to drown out the soprano rose by singing in a rather weak alto.

The girl frowned at the angry rose, a cold expression in eyes that had been filled with a blank innocence moments before. Calmly, she reached down and pulled the screaming bud from its stem. It melted like heated wax in her hand and the other flowers shrank back in horror. The pansies began to cry.

Erik pulled two large thorns out of the seat of his pants and glanced at them briefly before returning his gaze to the girl. He had never seen Christine perform such a malicious act. It was like witnessing a violent murder and his stomach twisted painfully. It wasn't so much the act as his innocent angel coldly snuffing out a tiny life like a mere candle flame. Cheshire Le Chaton was rolling on her back mewling with laughter.

The girl stared at her petal-stained hands and said softly, "Erik, what are you doing here? I thought you were dead."

"Christine," he whispered hoarsely around the knot in his throat, "please tell me what is going on."

She turned her unhappy face toward his and he knew that he had not imagined it. Christine, the woman he worshipped with every breath, stared at him from large, pain filled eyes. He feared this woman sitting before him who could don her soul like the mask he usually wore.

"When you've arrived you can only ever slightly leave…" she murmured to herself before turning her eyes up to the savage unmasked visage gazing with despairing love into her face. "Erik, please don't call me by that name here." Her eyes were wide and she whispered urgently. "There are things that you don't yet understand. Whatever I may seem, call me anything but Christine."

"What would you have me call you?" He raised his hand to hers, still upon his arm.

She smiled weakly at him. "I remember, once upon a time, a misty underground lake in another world that lay behind another looking glass. I should have learned the first time, but I've always been a dream chaser. You may call me Lotte… like everything else. Hello C.C."

Instead of purring a greeting like the kitten wanted, the fur on her neck stood on end and began to jump in place, hissing and spitting at the dark forest.

In the distance, a low growling voice began to sing. The sound seemed to crawl like a snake across the small clearing and the flowers paled. The cheerful darkness brightened slightly, like the light just before dawn that bleached away star washed color and made the world appear a bleak, faded image.

"Christine Daae," it hissed along Erik's spine, "always with her head in the clouds…"


	2. With Eyes Aflame

_A/N: Once again, I do not own anything by Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Susan Kay, or Lewis Carroll. Although this story does have some humorous moments, I would like to make note that it is a serious story with a few adult and angst filled themes that may not be suitable for children. I would also like to thank my beta and brilliant fellow writer, RandomBattleCry. Her stories can also be found on FFN. _

**Behind the Looking Glass: With Eyes Aflame**

"Christine Daae," it hissed along Erik's spine, "always with her head in the clouds…"

Fog swirled around Erik's feet and the strange, gnarled trees ceased their dance, swaying hypnotically and whispering around him. Branches reached out to brush his shirt with long, dry twig fingers. The air became thick and hot, and it was difficult to breath.

"Christine Daae," the voice sang again, and Erik realized that it was not a human voice. If a demonic violin could be made to speak, that was the voice of the approaching creature. "Where is your Angel of Music, Christine? I know your soul. I know what it desires. There is no Angel of Music, Christine. There is only," a hissing intake of air, "fire and then no more."

"What do I have to do," Erik stared urgently at the girl, "to kill this beast that haunts you?"

She gazed at him sadly. "He can only be slain with a vorpal sword."

"You cannot slay the Jabberwocky!" Cheshire Le Chaton, or C.C. as his angel called her, sank her claws into his breeches and blinked up at him.

He shook his head as though to clear it. "What is a vorpal sword? This does not make any sense."

"Nothing makes sense here," the girl said once again. "We are beyond the looking glass. Once, you brought me beyond my mirror into your world and told me to trust you. Now you are in mine. How you came to be here, I do not know, but I ask the same of you. Trust me, my angel. You cannot defeat the nightmare this night."

She stared at him with those large, pleading eyes. He faced the looming brightness that burned through the forest and felt his dark soul crack like the mirror he had fallen through.

"Is there nothing that I can do?" he pleaded.

"You can sing," she smiled. "Perhaps you can chase away my nightmare with my eternal dream."

The twisted trees swayed to the gentle melody of a playful breeze gliding through their gnarled branches. They smiled knowingly at each other, twigs entwining beneath the moonlight; star and heart shaped leaves mingling in a friendly dance. Far below the happy canopy, the flowers sang a lively tune. The night was colorful here, bright figures painted against a black background. This place was where the dream began.

Until now, it had been Christine's dream. A man in a dark room had painted it upon the canvas of her mind with voice and violin. She had loved that man and when he had died, Christine retreated to that place where the trees and flowers called her Little Lotte. Reality no longer had any meaning with Raoul gone and her father dead.

_It had been raining the morning Christine had lightly crept into her father's room. For three days, she had not left his side but he had her sent away the night before. The curtains were always drawn tight in his room, and when she awoke, even the dim light of the cloudy day streaming through her window had burned her eyes. The darkness of his room was a comfort. _

_They had been living in the abbey for nearly six months. The nuns who cared for her father were kind, but had she despised being there. They told her she was too young to read and even her father could not make them give her anything but simple prayer books. For a time, he contented her with the old stories he had spun for her and Raoul, but the cough became worse and he could barely speak. That particular morning, she had hoped he would have the energy to play for her. _

_The small room was sparsely furnished. A free standing mirror stood beside the fireplace, which she noticed sleepily had burned out. Beside the small bed was a night stand upon which was a tattered Bible and a cold, extinguished candle. Locating a match, she lit the candle and carried it to the chest at the food of his bed. Lying just inside was a small wooden music box that had belonged to her mother, and a very old violin._

_During the past two months, he had spun a new tale just for her. Naturally, Little Lotte was the main character, only instead of dark tales of their homeland; this story took place behind the mirror. He would speak or sing the tales of her adventures as she met large talking insects and mad royalty. It was a twisted fairy tale and Christine's imagination filled with the detailed images her father created. Every night when she slept, she would dream that she crawled through the small mirror on her dressing table to that magical world and wander over the chess board garden or through the Tulgy Wood with her faithful toy… a plush black and purple striped kiten that her mother had made for her when she was born. _

_She tenderly removed the cherry wood instrument, placed it at the foot of the bed, and closed the heavy lid. Setting the candle upon the chest, she climbed upon the bed next to her father and pulled the violin between them. It was naughty of her to wake him when he was resting so peacefully, but it was too late. His eyes were open, gazing dreamily at the ceiling. _

_Thinking to draw his attention, she took his large hand in her small one, but it felt like cold marble and she gasped, letting go. Comprehension dawned upon her young mind as she watched her hand move toward his face, pressing the cold unyielding flesh, wondering at her lack of fear. It was no longer her father. He had left her behind with nothing more than stories, and old violin, and her memories._

_She was alone now, an orphan. He was in heaven, playing his music for God. She hated God for being able to hear her father play, when she no longer could. A small movement caught her attention and her eyes flew to the mirror. The reflection of the candlelight danced merrily before her, and a cold rage filled her heart. It wasn't fair for the flame to shine so brightly in two places that she could witness when her father's spirit shined in one she could not. _

_In a childish rage, she clasped the instrument and slid off the bed. Running at the mirror, she shattered both wood and glass, sobs wracking her small frame. Splinters and shards of glass cut deep into her bare feet. The taut strings had snapped, and one whipped back, slicing her arm deeply. She stared into the candle's flame, breathing heavily. Broken and bleeding, tears dripped off her face to swirl with crimson upon a hundred reflections of her pain. Her young mind was unable to wrap itself around the horror within her heart, and she fainted. _

_When she opened her eyes, she was once again in that strange world. It seemed like she wandered for months there and every moment it changed to a distorted and bleak vision of the one her father created until it was little more than a nightmare in the end. The magnificent creatures were there, but a terrifying creature appeared. It stalked her, singing songs to drive her mad, and it wanted one thing. Her name. Christine could not find peace in the world that her father had created because his death ripped a tear in her soul, from which the Jabberwocky crawled._

_Christine had been missing for a week. The nuns had given up searching for her when she was found crumpled and bleeding before her father's bed, clutching the unharmed violin tightly to her chest and covered in glass. It was a miracle, they thought, and never questioned where she came from. Perhaps she had been hiding, injured, and had only just found her way there. She did not awake as they bathed her and put her to bed. They stood vigil over her during the night, for though she did not wake, the darkness was pierced persistently by her screams. _

_For months, she did not speak. There was no reason to, for no one would understand. She firmly believed that one day her father would send the Angel of Music to her, and he would slay the nightmare. He would bring comfort and she would no longer be alone. She would not go there again until he came even if she never slept again. Every chance she had, she would light a candle for her father and pray that he would send her angel soon._

Erik. His name skipped across her mind and she realized that she had never known it until now. She had believed he was her angel only to learn he was a man, but he had comforted her. With his voice speaking to her in the night, she was not alone with her thoughts. He was an answer to her prayers, a dream come true. He was like this place, a dream turned nightmare in waking life. Why should it surprise her to find him here?

It seemed that they would never be free of each other. God would not allow it. She should have known that every coin has two sides, and every prayer answered held a curse if it was mistreated. Erik had been an answer to her prayers, and when she no longer needed comfort and companionship, she had neglected the gift. Like a wounded animal, he had turned on her. She deserved it. She should have known better. Erik was destined to be her damnation, or she his salvation. Why did it all seem so clear here, where nothing ever really made sense?

The twisted trees were trembling in fear to the melody of a ghastly voice. They frowned knowingly to each other, twigs entwining above the searing light, star shaped leaves clinging together in terror. Far below their whispering canopy, the flowers cried a despairing tune; cringing against rock and giant mushroom. The night was fading here, bright figures painted against a black background melted like wax before firelight. This was the place where dreams ended and nightmares began.

Lotte smiled as Erik faced the garish light and began to sing. This was where her broken angel belonged.

"You can sing," she smiled. "Perhaps you can chase away my nightmare with my eternal dream."

It was something. He was surprised at his choice. It was a song that he had written for Christine when she first came to the opera house to soothe her fears of the dark. So many of the songs he had written for her were to tame her childish fears. Now, as he sang of stars, angels, and a protecting moon; the very night seemed to surround him, comforting him. His voice grew stronger and the faded quality of his surroundings lessened. It felt like magic, true magic, and not the illusions of which he was a master.

In this place, music had substance. Music had life! It flowed with his blood out of his heart, rushing through his veins and fusing the core of his being with the darkness of night. Together, they battled against the garish dawn until it faded into twilight without ever having become day. It receded at last into the appearance of a single flame, and Erik knew that flame was the burning eye of the soul-devouring beast.

"She is mine," the voice screeched in its dreadful notes.

"No," Erik whispered, collapsing to his knees in exhaustion. "She is her own, and we monsters have no claim upon her soul."

The voice did not reply. The stars smiled merrily down upon him, and he realized he was on his back once more.

"Fan-freaking-tastic," C.C cried, "you did well!"

Dimly, he acknowledged that the smiling stars were her eyes as a hand brushed his hair back from his face and different voice, female but more grown up whispered, "Sleep now."

He could deny her nothing.


	3. Surreality

_A/N: Special thanks once again to RandomBattleCry, my beta, friend, and muse. Additional thanks and credit for inspiration in this chapter and possibly a few more go to Robert Lewis Stevenson and his creation of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and the wonderful writer Musique et Amour who happened to be muse-of-the-day when this chapter was written oh so long ago.  
_

**Chapter 3**

Heart-shaped leaves on the lower canopy rustled a sigh as the cool darkness settled upon them once more. They whispered and swayed as the most curious of creatures threaded their way through the gnarled branches, brushing the leaves with fragile wings. Gently they fluttered to the ground, investigating the object lying there.

Erik felt a slight weight land on his face, and for a moment he reached up thinking to adjust his mask, but the creature lifted itself back into the air and hovered just out of his touch. He opened his eyes and blinked. Once again, he was laying on his back gazing up into the twisted trees.

"You're a strange looking insect," he murmured, catching it upon an open palm and examining the creature. It appeared to be a black and red feathered quill that had sprouted eyes, and great moth wings. With similar curiosity, it blinked at him from behind a small pair of glasses.

"You look like you've never seen a Sharneener before."

Glancing around for the source of the voice, he discovered it in the form of a rather large caterpillar sitting on a not-so-giant mushroom to his right. It was wearing a cloak and top hat, but it was definitely a caterpillar nonetheless.

He frowned. "A Sharneener, you said?"

The caterpillar nodded sagely. "Come down here where I can see you better."

Erik turned and lay upon his stomach, palms flat against the ground and his chin resting upon them. He was nearly eye-level with the creature and could not help but smile. Beside it was a hookah, but the caterpillar did not seem to be smoking from it. Indeed, it appeared that he was writing with it. Occasionally it would put the hose to its mouth and seemed to suck lightly; filling the hose with a dark red liquid. Then it would lower the hose back to a small book held by a patient daisy and write once more.

It was far too small for Erik to decipher what the caterpillar was writing, but he assumed it was composing. The multi-tasking abilities of the insect were remarkable. In addition to writing, it was also playing a minute violin, lute, and clashing two tiny cymbals. Occasionally it would gesture to a small buttercup which trumpeted softly at the signal. Apparently the note the trumpet sounded depended upon the arm the creature signaled with, like the actions of a skilled conductor.

The caterpillar peered up Erik, lowered the violin, and threw a book at him. He hadn't even seen the stack of books lying next to the insect. It was so small that it had left a tiny dent in the bridge of his nose before he even noticed it hurtling at him.

"Pay attention," it said. "Come down here."

"I can't." Erik replied.

The caterpillar extended one of its arms that was not occupied with a task and pointed to a mushroom a few inches away from the one it was sitting on. Almost immediately, the lilies-of-the-valley growing next to the mushroom indicated began tinkling excitedly.

"Eat that," it said, waving off the bell-like flowers, which slumped in dejection. Apparently this composition had little use for bells.

Erik shook his head. "I am not eating a strange mushroom, especially in this place. Even if it were not poisonous, who knows what it will do to me."

"Obviously you are new here; therefore I shall forgive you this ignorance." The insect placed the violin beneath its chin once more. "Just eat the mushroom, and then we can talk."

"What will the mushroom do?"

"Eat it or do not," it sighed before sucking lightly on the hookah hose. "It does not matter to me. If you do not eat the mushroom, then go away."

It was hard to believe that a creature small enough to be squashed underfoot had just given him an ultimatum, but Erik accepted it. The creature with its books, instruments, and strange writing device fascinated him. Perhaps it could also tell him something about this curious place, for instance how he came to be here and if he could leave.

"Will you not tell me the effect it will have?" Erik sat up and gazed at the colorful fungus with suspicion.

"Eat it or do not," it repeated gravely, bringing the hookah to its mouth again. "It matters not to me."

Taking a deep breath, Erik reached down and pulled the mushroom out of the ground. He had expected it to melt in his hand like the rose had in Christine's, but it did not. It sat in his hand looking almost expectant, like it had waited its entire existence for him to come along and eat it.

He ate it.

Immediately, his stomach wiggled, then lurched. It felt like the ground rushed up to meet his head; or perhaps his head rushed down the meet the ground. Either way, he was looking up at the caterpillar instead of down.

"That's better." It gazed over the edge of the mushroom before extending a free arm and assisting him onto the cap.

The caterpillar and Erik peered at each other for some time in silence before Erik began wandering around the mushroom. Occasionally bending to peruse the collection of books, he 

noted that most of them appeared to be large journals written by the creature and signed The Hydeing Caterpillar.

At last, Erik ceased his explorations and addressed the creature. "Why didn't the mushroom melt like the flowers do?"

"The mushrooms are not a part of the Background," the creature patiently replied. "Now, who are you?"

"I'm certainly not who I was yesterday," Erik sighed, gazing up at the tall blades of grass above him. The strange Sharneeners were flying about happily, far above. He imagined he could ride on the back of one and thought it would make a lovely scene in an opera.

The caterpillar, which had closed its eyes momentarily, cracked them open slightly. "What do you mean by that?"

"I meant nothing," he frowned.

"Suit yourself." It closed its eyes once more and began humming as it played the violin.

Now that Erik could properly hear it, he could not help but appreciate the melodic tenor of the caterpillar's voice. He wondered if it could sing as well as it played.

"Would you please explain to me exactly what the Background is?" Erik asked when it lowered the cherry wood instrument. He felt a stab of irritation when he looked up and saw that the caterpillar was ignoring him.

"Excuse me." He rose and approached the creature. "I asked you a question."

"Hmm?" It looked at him like it had quite forgotten he was there.

"I asked if you would explain what the Background is."

"It is exactly what it sounds to be." The creature explained after a moment of contemplating the man before it. "If this place was a stage in a playhouse, the background would be stage props. The flowers, trees, rocks, and even the stars are all a part of the Background. Creatures like you and the Cheshire Le Chaton would be the Foreground, or the actors on that stage. When you leave, you will become a part of the Background."

Erik scoffed, "How can I be a part of the Background if I am no longer here?"

"It happens to everyone who leaves," it replied. "You either leave and become part of the Background or stay and become as mad as a hatter… or the Red Queen. But you will come back when you have nowhere else to be, and you will go mad."

It spoke in a sing-song lecturing tone as though it had to explain this often and was quite bored with it. For a moment, it ceased speaking and played a lively tune on the lute before resuming its speech.

"In between the Background and the Foreground are the stage hands or the Meddleground. The Sharneener, the Jabberwocky, and the mushroom are all stage hands. Sometimes things in the Background are destroyed, but it's only temporary. The melted substance is gathered by the Sharneener and redrawn into a new existence. Everything in the Meddleground has the ability to affect everything in the Foreground."

Erik sat for a moment in thought.

"That makes absolutely no sense," he said at last.

The caterpillar obviously was becoming annoyed by his presence for it replied testily, "It doesn't have to make sense. That charming Lotte never talked of sense before. Why must you?"

Erik suddenly realized that he had quite forgotten about Lotte. The caterpillar had resumed playing its violin, once more either ignoring or forgetting about his presence.

"I must find her!" He leapt up and paced the cap in great agitation. "How do I become normal again?"

"Normal, indeed," the insect huffed. "Please stop shouting. With a face like yours, what makes you believe that you'll ever be normal? Now, who are you?"

Erik stared at the mad caterpillar. "I am Erik."

"Yes, but who _are_ you?" It inquired once more, peering at him closely.

"I do not have time for this," he growled angrily, stepping toward the creature. "Now, please tell me how I might regain my true size again and I may decide not to step on you."

The Hyding Caterpillar seemed to stretch, raising itself up to tower over the man before it. It leaned its impressive length forward and jabbed Erik in the chest with the violin's bow.

"Keep your temper. If you cannot speak to me in a civil fashion, then go away."

Erik stood his ground… or cap in this peculiar case. "I cannot help Chris…er, Lotte while I am three inches tall!"

"Bloody hell," it muttered angrily and turned a shade of deep red. "I am exactly three inches tall without stretching, and she tells me that I am a great help. If you wish to help her, obtain the vorpal sword."

"Where is it?"

"The Red Queen has it, of course." It turned a page in the book.

Erik was getting annoyed at the creature's half answers. "And will she simply give me this sword?"

"No."

Erik clenched his teeth and took a hissing breath, trying very hard not to throttle the caterpillar. "Tell me what I must do."

"You must win against her in a game of chance," it replied.

"That's it?" Erik paced the cap once more in irritation.

It nodded sagely. "It's a dangerous game."

"How dangerous?" he demanded.

"She cheats." It clashed the cymbals and scribbled something in its book. "She kicks puppies."

"No!" Erik could not believe it, his eyes widening. "Not puppies."

The caterpillar turned red again. "I do not lie."

Once again, Erik and the caterpillar peered at each other in silence. Finally, the caterpillar reached over and closed the book with a sigh.

"I have much to do," it said at last, "and you are annoying me. I would like for you to go away now."

Erik blinked.

The caterpillar ignored him.

"I _must_ grow back to my original size!"

"I said to stop shouting," it hissed angrily.

The caterpillar immediately dropped its instruments and strange hookah quill. For a moment, it appeared that the creature had turned inside out in an attempt to crawl into itself. It was a moment before Erik realized that it had simply formed a chrysalis of a red shade so deep it was nearly black. The mass pulsed and occasionally vibrated, the sunlight reflecting off its shiny surface. Then in screaming glory, the shell burst open around Erik and a monstrous butterfly with dark red and black wings lifted itself into the air.

It blinked at Erik, hovering slightly above him. Its antennae twitched in irritation.

Erik blinked back.

"Now see what you've made me do," it growled before gathering its instruments and flying away.

The fact that a butterfly had just growled at him was slightly unnerving, even for an opera ghost.

A pretty Lily-of-the-Valley tinkled a soft goodbye to the retreating butterfly, and the buttercup trumpeted sadly. The patient daisy dropped the book the caterpillar had been writing in and turned to Erik.

"You go up as you came down," it sang pleasantly before pulling itself up by the roots and scurrying away into the tall grass.


End file.
